It was warm enough that I was woken up by the tune from the Mr. Softee ice cream truck, cleaned out my planters and put in tulip bulbs in hopes that they may sprout in a few weeks, and Chuck the Mayor of Calyer Street was back holding court, with his winter gut hanging over his sweat pants as he asked me what I've been up to and promised me a bag of pills from his day gig.
I dropped off my rent check across the hall to my landlord, and again, got the sentence from one of her sons that seems to be their go-to phrase "Hey Sue. You'll have to forgive me, I'm kinda fucked up. I think I'm still drunk from last night." The other son walked with me down Franklin the other day on his way to his weed dealer. Nicest family in the world, but a passle of drunks, right down to Uncle George upstairs. At least I know they'll never come down on me or Meghan for any inadvertent late-night shenanigans.
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